Attention goes from object to object, some desirable, some frightening, some speculative, inferential, conditional or subjectively-toned. It doesn't just go, this going, with the detachment of an aesthete, but it plunges into each with the compulsiveness of a glutton - there ought to be a sucking noise each time it withdraws from one and dives into the next. It's a viscous, a sticky process, and it's in that naive passion that the judgment of reality lies, in the intensity of the way you surrender your self to each new bauble, and the way that the frightening or repulsive ones do even more for the latent sense of engagement in the real than the enjoyable ones. It's the latter, the brief achievements of delight, that hint of freedom and detachment, that complete the work of the former, paradoxically enclosing you in the imagined world of a life. Isn't that the very fantasm of 'bonheur', transcendence though the stabilisation of delight?